Absurd
by KayFay
Summary: The archdemon has been slain, and Alistair put upon the throne. But where does that leave Mahariel, lover of the king? Will contain copious amounts of angst later on. M for themes, just to be safe.
1. Prologue: Promises

**Thank you for visiting my new story! It's been dancing around my head for a while, so here it goes! This may be the only chapter in first person, past tense. I'm still trying to hammer out the details…I'm also trying to cut back on my overly poetic language that often occurs despite myself for this story. Suggestions in regards to the perspective and use of language are greatly appreciated!**

**Hopefully shorter chapters will lead to more frequent updates, but sadly, no promises. I am Queen of Procrastination… Next chapter will hopefully address the plot of the story.**

**Written with the aid of the melodious tones of Sherwood, and the most decidedly not comforting "Blah Blah Blah" by Ke$ha. It haunts me still…**

**Disclaimer: Ferelden isn't mine. Tis just a sandbox I play in.**

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PROLOGUE: PROMISES

The moment that simple circlet of gold that divided my lover and I so very harshly was lain upon his bowed head was the happiest moment of my life thus far.

The impossibility of our love made its existence almost laughable; who could have ever thought that a Dalish elf that owned nothing more than the skins on her back and the blades in her hands would become the lover of the shemlen king to be? And that they, side by side, newest members of a dying order, would climb over a thousand bloody corpses discarded by political machinations to lay their dirty hands upon the throne of Ferelden and then go on to slay one of the greatest creatures ever known?

_Absurd. Completely and utterly absurd._ I could not help but hear the whispers that constantly hovered on the edges of the lips of every shem, elf and dwarf that I encountered. The tales of the arch demon's defeat were unbelievable enough, the rumors of romantic entanglement could not be true, simply because the ocean of difference and defiance of centuries of fact.

That didn't change the delicious truth of the matter.

I loved Alistair and he loved me. Simple words for a simple fact. Our love was baptized in the blood of those that defied us, our passion forged in the fires of combat. Vows of loyalty and servitude to one another were sworn under the ever vigilant eye of the moon and the comforting gaze of a campfire, the stars the witnesses at the marriage of our hearts.

I swore to be by his side, no matter what the universe decided to try to butcher us with. I was all honey and stone, sweet and unshakeable. He in turn promised me the sun and land, all that he could never provide. He bathed me with foolish smiles and adoring gazes. We contemplated running from the burden that hissed through our veins; dreamed of finding a little farm in Orlais and living on wild hare, cheese, sin and love. But the nightmares came for us both, and we shouldered the struggle with the petulant sighs of children.

We soon discovered promises made with love are made to be broken when Riordan told us of the sacrifice that must be borne by the Warden whom slays the arch demon. He promised us both his life to protect ours, but Alistair and I knew that promises made in the name of duty and dependence on circumstance are ever more fragile. Morrigan gave us no promises, but rather a chance, and for that I trusted her.

We scarcely had the time to scrub the blood from our armor before the band of gold was hammered out and shoved atop Alistair's head. My hands prickled with the intensity of a thousand needles as my approval rang with that of the masses as he rose to meet his people. Pride straightened my spine, lit fire in my eyes. Here was the uneasy former-templar that had finally managed to learn to fit into his armor. An unwanted bastard, now raised to king.

And he was all mine.

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**Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed! Please give feedback, especially if you didn't like it, so I know what to change! I promise plot appears later on, but I caution you: there will be angst. Lots and lots of angst. **


	2. Chapter 1: Noble

**Thank you to everyone that read the first Chapter/prologue! I honestly didn't such a swift response! **

**The angst has not yet appeared as of this chapter (and the way my mind is having the story progress, may not for another four chapters). I'm going to attempt an update everyday, wish me luck! And beware the perspective shift!**

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CHAPTER ONE: NOBLE

_Taking the shemlen throne was deceptively simple at first; we forced acknowledgement from self-loving humans then killed any whom stood in our way. Simple, animalistic. Well suited to me, if not my love._

_We soon found that keeping the throne was harder than taking it. The dangers of a poisoned blade or a hidden archer were simple enough, but far more dangerous were the whispers that passed through the court as if some kind of particularly horrible disease._

_It is far more difficult to kill a rumor than it is to kill a man._

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_Noble, _Rinya decides as she contemplates the blackberry juice staining her fingertips. _Noble is a deliciously ironic word. _She sucks her fingers into her mouth, fighting for every last drop of that delicious purple juice, disregarding all thirty-nine pairs of incredulous eyes that are firmly fixed on her. _Shemlens are funny that way. Defying the lie everyone already knows by giving out ridiculous titles. _Her fingers dip back into the pilfered bowl and raises another small treasure to her lips. _Blood doesn't make a man "noble." _A burst of laughter, stifled as swiftly as it began draws her attention to the far side of the stone courtyard. _Well, with a few notable exceptions. _The admittance trudges sulkily from her mind as her eyes devour the man is golden armor, his movements languid as he tells some sort of story to courtiers that are trying very hard not to reveal their horror: a king, with a sense of _humor?!?!?_ Oh dear Maker, no!

The faintest vibration scuttles up her finger bones as she scrapes the bottom of the empty bow. Out of berries, damn. She swings a leg over the stone, the warm spring air kissing her bare thighs with care that rivals the touch of her lover. As she slips past the immortalized griffon, she lays a comforting hand upon its stylized neck. How fantastical would it be to fly into the night, wings of an eagle spread beneath your feet as your arms reach to brush reverent fingertips against stars? Rinya sighs; shame the foolishness of man has led to the death of such great beasts. Now, where are the berries…

"Rinya, come over here for a moment, if you would." The sibilant voice caresses her skin, drifts down the curve of her neck. Alistair is calling her.

She makes her way over to the man and the flock of doubtful parasites that surround him with dancing feet. The day has been wonderful thus far: friendship and foolish shems and love and fresh berries. She can scarce wait for the next moment. "Yes, human lord?" A smirk twists her lips as distaste curls those of the courtiers.

"Gentlemen and gentle ladies, may I present to you the Hero of Ferelden?" Warmth creeps through her lungs and veins with cinnamon spice and the sweetness of clouds as his eyes turn on her. She knows that the shems are watching the adoration creeping up to paint itself over her cheekbones, but she couldn't care less for their worries and scandals. Nothing matters but for what she feels here and now; the moment that weaves its subtle threads about them both, ensnaring their eternity.

"This is she that slew the archdemon?! An elf child? Where were you?" A voice rich with incredulous indignation severs the ethereal ties, corrupts the moment with an outsider's disbelief. Rinya coils, prepares to pounce and rend the flesh from the fool's bones with naught but words and murderous intent.

A loud chuckle from the king is the fool's salvation. "My dear, I do believe my honor has been challenged!" He intends his words to be teasing, gentile. Rinya sees a hidden opportunity.

She tsks, barely containing the vicious joy laughing it's way up her spine. "Well, now. That will not do." She wheels on the _noble,_ the feral spirit haunting the angles of her face promising pain. "I, Rinya Mahariel, champion of King Alistair, challenge you to a duel for calling into question the honor of your liege."

The horror that races through the pack of shems' eyes is a delightful compliment to the shocked amusement echoing within Alistair's smile. She is well pleased.

Words are slung back and forth, apologies uttered, and then screamed. In the end, Mahariel is denied her chance to play with knives and human flesh, but there will always be other times. The celebration was a success. Mahariel is pleased with the stifling of cowardly whispers and Alistair is pleased with the lack of corpses littering the flagstones. The night rings with hushed laughter and assertions of love. None fits them like one another, no one elses soul sings in harmony but for each other. Nothing can ever separate them.

The next day the courier from Orlais arrives.

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**Thank you for reading; I hope you enjoyed! If you didn't, feel free to tell me why. Suggestions are always welcome. Thank you for your support, I could't do this without my readers!**


	3. Chapter 2: Message

**I am so sorry about my failure (already) on the story updates. I got sick yesterday/last night all at once, and I was barely able to hammer out this chapter. I hope you enjoy… Time for cough medicine and sleep…**

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CHAPTER TWO: MESSAGE

_We were not stupid. _

_We knew the day would come when it was remembered that the arch demon had been slain. We knew other Wardens would come, all filled with angered confusion and self-righteous wonder._

_We were simply willfully ignorant._

_We were young and powerful and thrice-damned heroes. Who would dare oppose us? Who could stand before me and not tremble in fear?_

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She hates him. She hates his delicate clothes that the mud dares not touch. She hates his scent that is better suited to the wrists and necks of women. She hates his audible sneer. She hates the news he brings.

The Orleasians are coming for her. They'll reach Denerim before the summer's out. Four moons.

She keeps the nervous grin from mangling her lips too painfully as she contemplates possibilities. Killing the messenger will do nothing. She cannot kill the Wardens, nor can she ignore them. Her hands threaten to shake like doves.

Alistair watches the polite smile in her eyes begin to decay. Worry carves a line between his brows.

A smile freezes to Rinya's paling face. "It's a lovely time to be traveling." Her words trip from her lips, armed with blades and pikes. Even an Orleasian has the sense not to pursue the topic.

His attention retreats to Alistair, nervously bumbling out an unintelligible mix of common tongue and Orleasian. Rinya allows herself to contemplate the man seated next to her, red-faced and golden-haired from far too much time under the possessive caresses of the sun. Already the world is attempting to separate them.

She'll see the Maker on earth before she lets that happen.

Rinya finalizes her decision, pours steel down her spine. Her dagger is heavy with the weight of futures yet unforeseen. She will force this to be another war, if necessity dictates so.

Oh, but this would have been so much easier if they had just bought that Orleasian farm or passage to Antiva, lovely Antiva, filled with flowers, heat and beautiful women Alistair would most certainly _not_ be allowed to look at…

She reminds herself that wishes are for the weak, but it doesn't stop the intoxicating dreams from whispering at the edges of her sanity.

Later that night they discuss the messenger with hushed panic. It's too early for the Orleasians to care. It's too soon after the arch demon's death for them to be asking questions. They are too young to make this decision.

It is not until the moon is threatening the horizon do they craft their plan. They shall outsmart the Orleasians and keep their promised eternity for another fragile day.

In the morning, Rinya "leaves" Denerim.

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**Thank you for reading! I apologize for how short the chapter is and it's lesser quality, but I'm exhausted. The next chapter may not be up for a few days, because of family visits and such. Thanks for reading!**


	4. Chapter 3: First Vows

**I have been healed from my sickness by the wonders of 8 straight hours of Mass Effect and a glorious meal at Olive Garden! As a result, this chapter. I hope you enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: Yaddi yaddi yadda. Stuff is Bioware's.**

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CHAPTER FOUR: FIRST VOWS

_We were not half as intelligent as we liked to think we were. We may have been lauded as heroes, raised up as perfect examples of what anyone could ever hope to achieve, but our "brilliant" plans were often more akin to the blind fumblings of a child than the work of a master painter. But every once in a long while, we managed something genius._

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_Today is a fine day to be a coward_ Rinya muses as she strolls down the lonely road. The sun breathes heavy heat against what little exposed skin it can find as the wind tugs at her hood and kisses away the worried wrinkles, spawned from weeks of playing nursemaid to scheming nobles, that seem determined to etch themselves between her brows. She can barely feel the incredulous stares and daggers accusing the Warden of abandonment, a parting gift from the denizens of Denerim, between her shoulders anymore.

It is a good day.

Of course, half of Denerim is cursing her for walking away from them while their fledgling king stumbles about awkwardly, not yet having learned how to keep his head high under the weight of the kingdom that sits upon his brow. The other half cheer her on, their words echoing with an absolute certainty that she is off to fight for them, to slay their nightmares and claim the darkness for them.

Mischief dares her into a smile. She and Alistair have fooled an entire shemlen city. Tamlen would be envious.

Her feather-steps bring her to a shack leaning precariously away from the paddock as if trying to escape the musty reek of the horses. Rinya's nose twitches as a sneeze tempts her; horses smell nothing like the hala, all spice and scent of home. Rinya clutches her ragged cloak about her neck as she slips into the shack, coinpurse chuckling with wealth.

But it is not she whom leaves the shack, cloak and pack slung across her shoulder and step light with the promise of adventure. It is not Rinya whom mounts a horse. It is not the Hero of Ferelden that leaves Denerim that day.

But the Hero does slink back in through tunnels and shadowed alleys with the help of long-forgotten maps and whispers of gold. It is Rinya whom clambers into a convenient cart of grain that makes its way through the crowded Denerim streets to Fort Drakon. It is she who slips from the cart, into the waiting arms of her lover and up a well hidden stairway until they come to rest in a forgotten tower known only to Mahariel, the king, and three serving women who wait for her orders upon bended knee.

She dismisses them with a kind smile and an uncaring wave. When the final echoes of their footsteps have faded from the stone walls Alistair sweeps her into his arms and attempts to lead her into a bumbling waltz. They end up exhausted with laughter, slumped against shelves stuffed with books and decaying knowledge.

Lips meet and teeth clash causing vibrations of clumsy shock to quake up their jaws. They pause before a laughter gasps up their throats as they toss aside their astounding lack of grace and proceed to tug at restricting clothes, not caring what ears the walls may have.

Gleeful whispers and hushed assertions of love ring within the walls as night fades to day and Mahariel vows to stay within the tower, to spend the rest of eternity by her lover's side.

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**Thank you for reading! If you loved it, or if you hated it, please review and tell me how I can improve! And because I haven't done so in a while, thank you to all my readers! You are what make my working possible.**


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